after all.”
Yes. It was their honeymoon and she’d booked all these gorgeous boutique hotels close to the sights, restaurants and shops—shopping was something they both loved to do. And then, after a day of exploring, she’d thought they would return to their hotel and make love—tenderly, passionately. Definitely trying new things now that they were married (like the new furry handcuffs she’d picked up and the ridged vibrator—yes, please!). As her imagination strayed to creative ways to use the toys, her hand strayed to the seat beside her, encouraging Parker to take her hand and clasp it in his warm fingers.
Instead, her hand came into contact with a large, hairy arm that was a smidge damp. Jasmine’s eyes popped open and she swiveled to face the person seated beside her. He appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties with thinning hair and a friendly face. He wore a tie-dyed T-shirt that stretched across an ample frame, and as he met her gaze, he pushed square glasses back onto the bridge of his nose before dipping his hand into a party-sized bag of Doritos. Jasmine noticed bright orange crumbs dotting the front of his shirt and the armrest.
“Doritos?” he asked, as he held the bag out to her.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Jasmine said, taking a handful. She waved at the glass of champagne sweating on her pull-down table. “Do you want something to drink? It’s free up here, you know.”
The man smiled and Jasmine tried not to stare at the orange residue stuck between his two front teeth. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Jazz pressed the button to signal the attendant and the woman materialized beside her seat. “Another champagne for my friend, here.”
“I’d prefer beer if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.” Jasmine smiled sweetly at the man before turning her beaming face toward the French woman. “Beer for my friend. And another champagne for me. In fact,” Jazz added, indicating the first-class cabin with a wave of her hand, “Why don’t you bring out champagne for everyone!”
The woman rolled her eyes but Jasmine didn’t care. Was it the champagne making her feel light-headed and carefree?
“Toodle-oo, now.” She motioned with just the tips of her fingers, hoping to give the woman—who wasn’t even attempting the bored smile anymore—the brush-off. Then she turned to her seatmate.
“I’m Jasmine.” Jazz stuck her hand out and the man beside her took it, shaking it with a surprisingly firm grasp.
“Neil.”
“Nice to make your acquaintance, Neil. So, tell me about yourself.”
The two exchanged pleasantries: where they were from, what they did for a living, whether they’d been to Paris before.
See? Jasmine consoled herself. Look how calm I am, making nice with a complete stranger as if everything is normal.
As if her whole world hadn’t been turned upside down a mere forty-eight hours ago and she hadn’t received the worst shock of her life.
Their drinks arrived, though Jasmine noticed her champagne was a little on the glass-half-empty side.
Bitch.
“So, Neil, what’s in Paris? Business or pleasure?” She downed the champagne in three swallows and pressed the call button again.
Two can play this game, gorgeous French woman.
“Oh, a comic convention. It’s the biggest one in all of Europe. I’m an illustrator.” He brushed a wisp of hair off his forehead.
“Interesting.” Jasmine helped herself to another handful of Doritos. “What kind of illustrations?”
“Do you want to see?”
“Why not?”
Neil unfastened his seat belt and retrieved a bag from the overhead compartment, taking out a sketchbook before replacing the bag and sitting down. He flipped open the sketchbook to cartoons of—well, Jasmine was having a hard time focusing, to be honest.
“The cartoon is called Betty Boobs. It’s a play on Betty Boop. It’s very popular in Europe.”
Jasmine blinked and squinted. Big-chested, naked cartoon women with a bit of 1930s flare graced the pages of his sketchpad. Getting it on. Porn. The guy drew cartoon porn.
Cool.
“Neil, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you know what a beard is?” She blinked at him, forcing herself to swallow. That last sip of champagne had burned.
“You mean like facial hair?” He stroked his chin.
“No. The other connotation. Do you know it?”
His bushy brows drew together and then rose up his forehead as if filled with helium. “You mean like a gay guy who—”
“Yes.” She poked him on the arm. “That’s exactly what I mean. For example, my fiancé—well, ex-fiancé—asked me to marry him, right?”
“Okay.”
“Unbeknownst to me, I was his beard.” Reaching over to the little table in front of Neil, Jasmine snagged the can of Bud that he’d barely sampled and guzzled a good third before continuing. “We were supposed to get married yesterday.”
“Really?” His gaze was on the beer, not her.
She nodded.
Wow. She was really doing it. No tears. No temper tantrums. Just reporting the facts as if it had happened to someone else or like she was completely over it. Jasmine was proud of herself.
She drank deeply again before leaning close and placing her hand on Neil’s sweating forearm. “Yep. I’d have never known, except the night before the wedding, while I was supposed to be staying at a hotel with my friends, I came back to my apartment to pick up something I’d forgotten—something borrowed, or was it something blue?” She tapped her lips. “Hmm. Either way, that part doesn’t matter. What matters is that I caught my fiancé in bed with his best friend. They were booping. Betty Booping, if you will.”
“Holy shit,” Neil said, still eyeing the beer in her hand. “That must have been a shock.”
“Oh, yeah.” She pointed to the seat he was occupying. “My new husband was supposed to be sitting where you are sitting right now, but he’s not. Because he’s gay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He never loved me.” Jasmine fell back into her seat, staring at the headrest in front of her. “He was only using me. God. And I was so blind because he gave me whatever I wanted.”
“Hey.” The guy patted her hand where it lay on the shared armrest. “You okay?” He carefully retrieved his nearly empty beer from her slack fingers.
“A gorgeous penthouse apartment. Fifty-thousand-dollar
